what's on the other side
by How Clever of You
Summary: He broke down a few times, purely from struggling alone for so long. /  Spike/Wordy bff fic.


**not sure if I like this one... the words just haven't been coming out right lately, and it's been a bit of a struggle for me to write. hopefully I'll be back on track sometime soon, though! I also wasn't sure whether or not to go ahead and write this in the first place (I've put poor Spike through enough). but then it sort of transformed into a whole Wordy/Spike bff fest and I decided that as long as he had someone with him, it was okay.**

** big thanks to rgs38 for beta'ing this. very, very appreciative! **

**I hope you all can survive without new weekly episodes of Flashpoint!  
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><p>This is how it should go: he uses his body as a shield to protect a child from a bullet. He throws himself in front of a defenseless civilian as an attacker raises his knife. He inserts himself in a hostage situation and attracts the perp's attention long enough for the rest of his team to get the citizens to safety. And if he goes down in the process? At least he saved lives. It was part of the job description, a constant threat that nobody liked to think about. But when it happened, at least they could say <em>he died a hero. He died saving lives. He died in the name of peace for our city.<em>

He didn't get there, though. It started with his shooting being off, his hands cramping up on the keyboard. Then his speech started to slur, and he couldn't form sentences without stumbling over his words, having to go back and over-enunciate each and every syllable. It got tiresome and annoying.

Psych evaluations came around, and Larry Toth leaned across the table, dead serious. He said he had noticed dipping scores on the range, awkwardness and tripping on the course. He was struggling to do his job, which had been like second nature before. Toth asked him to perform a simple task – tie the shoelaces on his boots. Spike put his boot up against the table, but his fingers locked, and all he could think was _oh, shit, it's arthritis_.

He tried to leave the team silently after his diagnosis, but it was impossible. He came in to sign the resignation papers when he hoped his team was out on patrol, but they were all hanging around the gym. Raf called out to him and jogged over, punching him in the arm. Spike squeezed his eyes shut and set his teeth.

He had no choice but to tell them. Greg herded them all into the debriefing room, making sure everyone was seated before turning to Spike. He just leaned against the table for a moment, muscles aching. They were so patient with him, waiting quietly as he forced the words from his mouth. It had progressed for months already, he explained, long before he even knew what was going on. When the symptoms first started, he thought he could ignore them – after Toth, though, he pushed himself to go to the doctor.

Eventually, he would be losing full mobility and control of his tongue; over exaggerated reflexes would be normal. In time, he wouldn't be able to stand by himself. He would need someone to help him out of his bed. He would be trapped inside his body, immobile and unable to speak, until it ate him alive.

He gave them statistics. Laid it all out on the table. He was forty-some years old with a disease that would kill him, most likely within the next five years. ALS was not something you could escape, not for anything.

He broke down a few times, purely from struggling alone for so long. It was such a relief to get it off of his chest, to share the secret with people who weren't dressed in white coats. They stayed silent, half out of respect, half out of disbelief.

Finally, he got through it all. He sank down heavily in the nearest chair and put his head down on the table. Jules was first to get up; she leaned her cheek against his back, her tears warm through the cotton of his shirt.

For the next few months, he was lost. He didn't have a job to distract him; didn't trust himself to drive unless he needed to; his mother was still in Italy; and all of his friends, his only friends, were working around the clock, keeping a city he could only catch a glimpse of through his apartment window safe. He couldn't go out and socialize like he so wished he could because talking was getting more and more difficult. He spent his time doing crossword puzzles in near illegible writing and watching TV shows he really didn't care about.

Finally, he had enough reason to check into the hospital. At first, his team visited him every night. They would sit by his bedside, telling stories and jokes and making him laugh. Once they left, though, his good mood faded and he was left staring at the wall. He couldn't even bring himself to flirt with the pretty nurses who came in to give him his medication.

Over time, his friends started taking shifts. By the time Spike's voice had become so soft it was almost impossible to understand, they had all started coming by occasionally. Once a month, maybe once every two – and it hurt. A lot. It hurt that they could go on with their lives and he was stuck in a bed, probably for the rest of his life. He constantly had to remind himself, though, that it wasn't their fault, both about moving on and not visiting – he was dying from the inside out, and it hurt them to see him like that. They had jobs and families and obligations that were out of his reach.

He hated them, a little, just because.

The only person that stuck around for the long haul – stopping by every day, even if it was for a second on his way home – was Wordy. He would smile and pull up a chair. Sometimes, they didn't even talk; Wordy would just prop his feet up on the bed and read the paper while Spike slept. There were many times where he woke up to find his friend there, just sitting and driving away the loneliness.

Wordy seemed prone to mumbling. He claimed that being the father of three shy girls gave him super-sensitive hearing, but Spike wondered – briefly – if he actually just cared. If everyone else got so tired of trying to understand that it wasn't him that was failing, it was them.

It got worse. A lot worse. Just a few weeks before he lost control of his arms, though, Wordy checked him out, wheeling him down the hall and out to the car. He helped Spike into the passenger seat, then stuck the chair in the trunk.

Dusk was falling. It had been a long time since Spike had been outside to see it. He watched, in childlike awe, as the sun sank below the horizon, not paying attention to where they were going because, really, anywhere was better than where he was. He wanted to run away from himself, just for a little while.

They ended up going to the Wordsworth household. There were a handful of cars parked outside, but Spike didn't pay them too much mind. There were two two-by-fours set up against the steps, and Wordy pushed him up them and into the house.

The entire team was there, and their families, too – Sophie, Clark, Dean, Isabelle, Marina, even Winnie, Donna, and Hank. They all welcomed him like he was coming home, like this was a door that he was crossing through that would return everything back to normal.

He sat in the living room with the guys, watching a game on the television. He tried to enjoy himself, he really did – but having everyone around him, acting like nothing had happened, was almost too much. He felt so cut off, lost without his voice.

Shelley prepared a beautiful spread, and everyone crowded around the table as a family. There was lots of laughter and love. Just for a moment, Spike lost himself. He forgot who he had become and remembered, instead, who he had been. A capable young man who had overcome so much, surrounded by a group of men (and women) that cared for and respected him, and who he loved with all his heart in return.

After dinner, Wordy took him to the bathroom. It could have been humiliating, but he just wheeled Spike inside and shut the door, promising to be right outside the door when he was done. It was little things like these that made him so thankful for having friends like these, friends like Wordy.

Later on, too early, Wordy jumped up off the couch, ready to take him back to the hospital. Everyone said a heartfelt goodbye, and Sam and Jules walked them out. He ran to get the car started while she leaned down, a hand on either side of Spike, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Don't ever think that I don't love and miss you," she whispered. She gripped his stiff fingers. "I'm sorry I haven't been visiting. I don't have an excuse. I know that it's hard, and I wish I knew what to do…"

"Nothing," he replied quietly. His throat was getting tight, and any more words would have started the tears. She ran her hand across his shaved head (it was easier to manage than having to brush it every morning) and tucked his face into the crook of her neck before stepping back and heading for the car.

Back at the hospital, Wordy stayed in the bedside chair for two more hours before heading home, leaving Spike drugged and groggy, nauseous from whatever they were pumping into his bloodstream. A nurse came by to check up on him, a glass of juice in her hand. Before leaving, the tv was turned on, and Spike spent the rest of the night watching a documentary on killer whales with half-opened lids.

A week later, Spike was hooked up to a machine to aid in his breathing. His doctor came by with a solemn face, telling him his time was coming, and fast. They put him in hospice and promised to make him as comfortable in possible.

Really, all he wanted back was his health. He would give up sugar and carbs and bombs and Toronto and even his badge just to be able to stand on his own, walk and run and jump and _speak_. He missed that. He missed making people laughing, being the loudest person in the room. Now it was just him, his croaky voice, and a static hospital television.

Wordy brought up his mail and read him a letter postmarked from Italy. His mom – oblivious to how bad he had gotten – had just landed a gig babysitting for a friend from church. Spike's heart ached, wishing he could spare her the pain of losing her only son.

Once they had gone through the catalogues, pointing out the most useless items pictured, Wordy sat back and put his feet up on the bed next to Spike's legs. He chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully for a moment and Spike sank back into his pillows, watching his friend.

"It's not the same," he started, "but we're kind of… _it_, aren't we? We didn't have to leave for a good reason. We're not heroes. We didn't get this way from helping out someone else. Our bodies just decided to suck, and… here we are."

It was strange, having somebody else say the words he'd been thinking all along.

Wordy dropped his feet and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. He exhaled slowly.

"They did the same thing to me as they did to you," he said quietly. "I had to fight to keep them all in my life. Even Eddie. I mean, work, families, their own lives – but it's psychological, too. Once they realize that it's just going to keep getting worse and worse… it's scary, you know? It sucks. They can't do anything to help. Jules, remember when she said she likes the answers straight: yes and no and right and wrong. Not screwing around in between with sickness and loss and dredging up all _when_s and _what if_s."

Spike squeezed his eyes shut.

"When you got sick, I remembered how I felt. How all that I wanted was someone other than my wife, someone who I could share all of my fears with without seeming like I was any less. Shelley depends on me to be strong, you know? I can't burden her with how weak I'm becoming. It's hard for anyone to deal with. But I hope that my being here didn't make you feel alone or scared or like you had no one to talk to anyway."

Spike adjusted his ventilator. "I feel like you're the only one who cares sometimes," he whispered, and took a deep breath. "I don't think I could do it without you."

Wordy gripped his left hand tightly. "We're a team, right? On duty or not, I'm always here for you. I'm scared out of my mind over losing you, but I'm not going to hide, because I know you would do the same for me, roles reversed."

Spike let himself smile for the first time in what felt like ages. "No doubt in my mind."

"Hey," Wordy said suddenly. He sniffed and wiped a hand across his face, and he didn't look as deeply sad as before. "You know what some people call ALS? Lou Gehrig's disease. You got more than just me with you; your best friend's been here every step of the way."


End file.
